


Reflections

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Episode Related, M/M, Mirror Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-03
Updated: 2016-08-03
Packaged: 2018-07-29 00:05:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7662421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“My dear General du Vallon,” Aramis says, quiet seriously.  He places a hand on Porthos’ hand, blinks slowly at him, and says, “You must know that I’m flirting with you.” It's perhaps the first time in a long time that Porthos was a guest a party rather than a soldier. So naturally he and Aramis spend the party elsewhere in the palace. (Post 3x10)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reflections

**Author's Note:**

> Thiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiis fic was written back in April and I've been sitting on it until the finale aired on BBC. AND NOW IT IS HERE. And now I can thrust it out into the light, yes hello here it is. ~~That fic title is so dumb lol.~~
> 
> I am so delighted with everything.
> 
>  **ETA:** And now I am even more delighted because [FANART](http://jlsdrawings.tumblr.com/post/148405389014/there-is-no-fucking-way-to-quote-this-fic)!!!

It’s perhaps the first party that Porthos has ever been to where he hasn’t felt distinctly out of place. An odd thought, really, but he’s not about to say no to the concept, either. He’s wearing his regalia, befitting a general – and that’s also still a strange thought. He’s the Queen’s General of her armies. In all the years he slaved away as a soldier, he never though this would be the result – actual praise, actual glory. And yet. 

There’s excitement in the air around him, a party celebrating recent peace treaty attempts. The chaos in Paris has made the Queen wary of throwing parties – Porthos knows this from what Aramis has told him, her fear of seeming dismissive, of being reckless with spending – and it’s by all accounts a modest affair, only enough to quell ruffled feathers in the court. It’s been a trying few years, but he knows the Queen is one who can weather this storm, Aramis by her side. The thought makes him smile. 

He drinks another glass of wine. Sets it down and weaves through the crowd. In parties like this, it used to be that people would part from him, or approach him believing him a servant. Now, those that recognize him give him appreciative nods, a few even pause to have conversation with him. It’s strange. It’s nice. He wonders how long it’ll before it feels natural, before it feels like breathing the way being a musketeer was home, was inherent.

It’s around this time that Aramis finds him. Suddenly he’s there at his side, faster than Porthos can breathe – quicker than Porthos can wonder where he is. He’d been entertaining some of the visiting noblewomen all evening – Porthos had seen him giving him charming smiles, despite himself. His easy smile is turned towards him now. 

“I’ve been looking for you, General,” Aramis says and he’s grinning – that bright, half-crooked smile of his that always lights up when he calls Porthos by his title. Even after these few years, he doesn’t stop being delighted when calling him that. Truthfully, Porthos still feels giddy hearing it. Aramis says his name, his title, like it’s the only word he knows – reverent, deferential. 

“Minister,” he returns, equally as ridiculous – trying to hold back his grin. Aramis grins up at him, fiddling with his gloves. He’s outdone himself in terms of pomp – deep, royal colors of intricate embroidery weaving and paisley. He looks like a peacock. He has a red ribbon in his hair. 

“Enjoying yourself?” Aramis asks as he reaches out, adjusting a clasp of Porthos’ regalia for him. It isn’t the same as his armor – that’s what Porthos has felt most comfortable in, lately – but it’s still intricate, fleur-de-lis stitched into the lapels, denoting him as the Queen’s. Aramis runs his hands down his chest for a moment longer than strictly necessary, considering where they are, before dropping his hands away. 

“The food was good,” Porthos offers. “Wine, too.”

Aramis chirps out a bright laugh and it lights his eyes up from the inside out. “Of course you’d say so.”

Aramis’ grin turns toothy, matching Porthos’ expression. Porthos can’t remember the last time he ever felt happy at a party like this. Can’t remember the last time he’d been at a party and wasn’t expected to guard or watch dignitaries as a musketeer. It’s quite different being a guest in the Queen’s castle, guest alongside the Minister of France. 

Porthos hums out and Aramis tilts his head, fiddles against with his gloves, tugging them up higher along his wrists. 

“I like the red,” Porthos says, nodding towards the ribbon, noting the red stitching along Aramis’ gloves, the red accents to his clothes. 

Aramis ducks his head, smiling a little. “It’s your favorite, right? I remember.” 

Porthos’ smile turns gentle, despite himself. “As if you don’t know you look good in any color.” 

He likes Aramis in blue. It brings out the softness in his eyes. But he looks good in red, too. He remembers long nights discussing the benefits of color, long ago, long before any of this – Aramis turning towards him and saying, _I like red because it’s your favorite color._

Porthos hadn’t had the heart to tell him that he’s found himself more partial to blue over the last decade. Associates the color with Aramis. But he’d smiled all the same, blushing, ducking his head to kiss Aramis’ neck – all those years ago now.

Now, fifteen years later, Aramis is grinning at him like it’s that same night all those nights ago – like they are younger and still don’t know everything about each other. It’s strange to think of it like that: fifteen years. They’ve known each other for nearly fifteen years now. 

Up close like this, there’s more grey in Aramis’ beard. They haven’t been musketeers for a few years now, but it hasn’t changed Aramis. His eyes are still just as gentle, his smile just as kind when turned to Porthos. He can’t help but wonder what Aramis would see, looking at him. 

Aramis tilts his head. “I wore the red for you. You could compliment it more.”

Porthos laughs. “You peacock.” 

Aramis flips his hair a bit. It’s grown out – he can pull it back into a proper ponytail now, if he wanted. But Porthos knows he likes the way his hair frames his face, knows the ponytail is superfluous at best. It’s alright. Porthos likes untying it, likes running his fingers through it. 

“I can be quite beautiful, given the right circumstances,” Aramis sniffs.

“Oh yeah?” Porthos prompts. 

“In certain lighting, red can be quite becoming,” Aramis demurs. 

Porthos laughs. “Do tell.”

Aramis puffs out a breath of air, clearly frustrated at Porthos’ general lack of response. It’s easy to ruffle Aramis’ feathers after so long. Porthos knows exactly what to do – or what not to do. He does his best to muffle down his grin, instead adopting a sagely benevolent look as Aramis heaves a weary sigh. 

“Yes,” Aramis says, placing unnecessary stress on the word. “Such as low lighting?” 

“Hmmmm,” Porthos hums out with no commitment. 

Aramis looks incredibly frustrated for all of two seconds. 

“My dear General du Vallon,” Aramis says, quiet seriously. He places a hand on Porthos’ hand, blinks slowly at him, and says, “You must know that I’m flirting with you.”

Porthos snorts. “Does it count if you _tell me_ that?” 

“It’s necessary. I’m dropping hints,” Aramis tuts. “Don’t tell me you’ve hit your head out in the battlefield again and are ignorant to that.”

It’s light joke. But Porthos doesn’t joke back – knows that Aramis would betray himself through his own joke, would start to fret no matter how much of a tease Porthos put to his voice. No, he knows not to joke about any injury he sustains out on the front. Knows how much Aramis worries for him, when he’s away and at war. Knows, too, that Aramis doesn’t let himself doubt that Porthos will come back. Knows, too, that Porthos would do anything to make sure he always does. 

Still, Porthos snorts lightly. “Why don’t you make it clear, then?”

“Porthos,” Aramis says with a tired sigh, casting his eyes around once to make sure they are in relative solitude before squeezing his arm, “I’d very much like it if you took me to a back room and fucked me.” 

“Ah,” Porthos says with a long sigh. “Well, why didn’t you say so, Minister?” 

Aramis’ hand is light on his arm. He’s looking up at him, eyes lidded. 

“Porthos,” he says, again.

Porthos laughs, lifts a hand, thumbs at one of Aramis’ gold buttons, accenting the red of his coat. “Alright, alright,” he says. “Which room?”

Aramis perks up immediately. And then he withdraws, tipping his head a bit so that his hair spills over his shoulder. Porthos’ smile turns heated as Aramis turns and leads the way out of the room. Porthos follows him at a discreet few paces behind him, nodding in greeting to those trying to catch his eye but not allowing any of them to waylay him. He knows better than to keep Aramis waiting. 

Porthos watches Aramis, can’t help but smile a bit when Aramis glances at him over his shoulder – playing coy, leading Porthos down an extravagant, gold-plated hallway. He leads Porthos to one of the smaller rooms in the palace, darkened by curtains. There’s no fire in the grate and no torches save for what’s spilling in through the doorway.

Aramis smiles when Porthos slips into the room – pushes Porthos to the wall, his hands sliding down obscenely slow across Porthos’ chest, and leans in to kiss him. Porthos sighs out, curling his arms around Aramis’ waist. 

“Wandering away from a party,” Aramis whispers against Porthos’ mouth. “How very scandalous, General. What will people say?” 

Porthos laughs, drags his teeth over his lip. “Won’t they say the same of the Minister?” 

Aramis laughs, hot breath against Porthos’ cheek. Porthos nuzzles at his jaw line, smiles when Aramis breathes out a delighted sigh. Aramis’ hands cup the nape of Porthos’ neck, plays with some of the curls there, kneads into his skin. He kisses Porthos again and again – heated and gentle. No matter how much time passes, Aramis kisses Porthos like it is the first time – like fifteen years ago, melon in his hair from the first birthday Porthos ever celebrated with Aramis, pressing to the wall of the garrison, in the shadows, dragging his tongue across his teeth. It feels so long ago now – and still just too soon. 

He runs his hands up Aramis’ back – feels the embroidery of the brocade, red beneath his fingertips. He lifts his hand, tugs the red ribbon loose, lets Aramis’ hair fall into his palm. Aramis sighs softly into his mouth, kisses him harder. 

Aramis breaks the kiss, ducks his head to press sloppy kisses over Porthos’ neck. Porthos plays with his hair, sighing out, surveying the room over Aramis’ shoulder. The one door, so that’s good. No windows, he realizes – where he thought were curtains are only shadows. Shadows gleaming around the room, over the floor. 

“What kind of room is this?” Porthos asks.

Aramis makes a frustrated sound, drawing away from where he’s biting and sucking a bruise into Porthos’ neck. He is most definitely pouting. “Shouldn’t you be paying attention to me, my love?”

Porthos laughs, drags his thumb over his pouting bottom lip. Aramis nips lightly. Porthos cups his chin, tips it up, and kisses him in apology. 

“I suppose I forgive you,” Aramis sighs out breathlessly once they part. 

He parts from Porthos, long enough to push the door open and fetch one of the candles sitting on a table outside. Aramis shuts the door with a decisive snap, the only source of light spilling through the room the candle Aramis holds.

He gropes in the dark until he finds Porthos’ hand, grinning in the candlelight and drawing Porthos away from the wall. “Come, look.” 

He draws Porthos into the room, and the glimmering shadows bounce more as they move closer – and that’s when Porthos realizes that what he’s been looking at is a collection of mirrors. Some are ornate, gold-lined and inlaid with jewels. Others are more modest. A few are covered in long sheets, but there are a few crumbled up sheets on the floor. It is, undoubtedly, a hall of mirrors. 

Porthos lifts an eyebrow at the sheets on the floor. “You planned this.”

“Of course,” Aramis says, softly, curls into Porthos’ space – holding the candle away as he wraps his arm around Porthos’ neck, tugs him down so he can kiss him gently. “Why shouldn’t I bring such a gorgeous man into a room where he might admire himself?” 

“Talking about yourself again, huh?” Porthos laughs.

Aramis barks out a laugh and bumps his nose to his. “Hush.” 

“You sweet-talker,” Porthos murmurs, kissing the corner of Aramis’ mouth, nuzzling against his jaw and kissing his ear. “Trying to seduce me?” 

“I hardly need to try with that,” Aramis hums, playing with his hair. He presses his lips to Porthos’ ear, nibbling at his earlobe and then sucking his earring into his mouth for a moment. Then he whispers, quietly, “Here’s what I think we should do. I’m going to suck you off and you’re going to watch. And then, when you’re ready to fuck me, you’re going to push me against one of these mirrors.” 

Porthos sucks in a sharp breath and Aramis laughs, breathless and high in his throat. They break away long enough for Aramis to set the candle down on a little table near one of the mirrors, mindful that it won’t be in danger of getting knocked around. He goes to Porthos again and Porthos is there to meet him, catching his hand and kissing his fingertips. 

“You’ve been thinking about this,” Porthos says, his voice low and breathless, too.

Aramis nods, his smile blinding even in the shadows. “You have no idea how much.”

Porthos thinks he has some idea, but he lets Aramis draw him closer, start working at the buttons to his uniform, mindful not to disrupt any of the regalia over his chest. Porthos breathes out, steadily, as Aramis drags him in closer by his belt, undoing it slowly. 

Porthos lifts his hands, undoes the golden buttons of Aramis’ red coat. It falls off his shoulders and bundles on the floor alongside Porthos’ belt. Aramis untucks the linen shirt beneath and tugs it off over his head so he’s shirtless. He breathes out as Porthos runs an appreciative hand over his side, cups his hip. 

“And now these,” Aramis says, quite pleasantly, and his cheeks are flushed with warmth as he reaches for Porthos’ trousers. The red to his cheeks is obvious even in the dim, flickering light of the candle. 

He kneels before Porthos as he undoes the snaps to his trousers, inches it down over his hips to expose his cock – already half-hard just from this. He grins, looking pleased, and presses a sloppy kiss to Porthos’ hip. 

“God,” Aramis breathes, nuzzling at his hip, “You are always so beautiful.” 

He braces one hand on Porthos’ hip, the other reaching out to slowly stroke Porthos’ cock, coaxing it into full hardness. Aramis looks up at him. 

“Watch me,” he whispers, breath hot against Porthos’ flushed skin. Porthos curls a hand into his hair. Aramis leans forward, nuzzles his cock, lets it slide against the flush of his cheek. Aramis flutters his lashes, lets out a little sigh, his lips quirked in happiness. 

“Don’t I always?” Porthos asks, breathless, and Aramis teases against him, lets his lips brush the head of his cock once before drawing back to give him a wide smile. 

“Look at me,” Aramis whispers out, clarifying, “in the mirrors.” 

His eyes are sparkling and it’s clear that this is what he wants – to be seen, to be lavished in praise. Porthos manages a small nod and Aramis slips forward, takes his cock into his mouth – and he does so love to suck Porthos’ cock, he knows this. Aramis hums out and Porthos sighs, strokes a hand over his jaw. 

“You’re so good,” he whispers, and Aramis lets out a keening whimper of pleasure, squirms closer even from such simple praise, lets his mouth fan along the belled lip of Porthos’ cockhead, suckles at him. Runs the tip of his tongue over the slit of his cock. Porthos breathes out a soft moan, tilts his hips up. 

He runs his hand over Aramis’ forehead, presses the hair back away from him. 

And then he does as is asked – looks at the mirrors around them, looks at his cock in Aramis’ mouth from all angles. 

“You’re so gorgeous,” he says, because it’s true and because he knows Aramis wants to hear it. He hears and feels Aramis whine out around his cock, sees him arch his back a little in the mirror to the left of them. 

Aramis’ moan is a praise, licks his tongue from base to tip, looking up at him even as Porthos obediently watches the mirrors. Aramis swallows around him – he can see the bob of his throat in the dim light. Aramis turns his head, just slightly, looks at Porthos in the mirror, his eyes heavy with lust. He drags his tongue over him, pillows his lips – hand stroking him in time to his mouth and breath. 

“Porthos,” he whispers, looking at him in the mirror. Porthos moans, tightens his hold on his hair. Aramis keens out, happily. 

“You’re so pretty,” Porthos mumbles. Aramis preens under the praise, his mouth broad and open as he sucks him down. He lets his moan draw out, longer than strictly necessary, looking up at Porthos through his eyelashes. That’s enough to make Porthos break into a soppy little smile, nodding his head, ducking down closer towards him and gripping his hair.

Aramis keens again, suckles at his cock, swallows him down with as much enthusiasm as he can muster. His jaw must ache, Porthos thinks. His knees must be protesting the position. But he also knows that Aramis wouldn’t care – that Aramis would be drunk on the feeling of his cock against his tongue, on the need to make him come. 

They could go on like this forever. Porthos starts moving faster – curls his fingers tight in his hair and watches them in the mirror: the way he moves towards Aramis and Aramis, instinctively, ducks his head towards him. They move in tandem. They move like they’ve been doing this for years – like they know every single inch, every single touch. And they do. God, they do. 

Aramis whines out and suckles around him, sweeps his tongue, tucks his lips forward to get more of him – to swallow him down as much as he’s able. It’s been a while since they’ve been like this, and every time Porthos knows that Aramis must adjust again to the bulk of him, the weight of him in his mouth. And every time, Aramis rises to the occasion, delights in swallowing him down – in proving that he can, in coaxing orgasm from Porthos. He rocks forward, unsteadily, feels himself blush when he glances too long at his own reflection – has never seen himself like this before, has never seen the way his mouth opens to breathe, the way his body bows towards Aramis. That much is embarrassing. 

Watching Aramis, though – seeing every side of him. That’s—

Porthos feels Aramis’ nose press up to his belly, feel his cock deep inside of him, as Aramis swallows him down. Aramis, determined, manages to not choke on the bulk of it, on the stretch of his mouth. The angle in the mirror isn’t right so Porthos ducks his head to look at him – feels himself shaking apart as Aramis’ mouth works around him. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” he gasps out. He wishes – wishes he could go on like this forever and knows he cannot. 

He looks at the mirror directly facing them – one large hand cradling the back of Aramis’ head, the other touching at his shoulder, sliding over his neck, up into his hair, too. Aramis’ shoulders flexing, stroking his hands over Porthos’ thighs, Porthos’ cock, cupping his balls. Aramis moves his hips, flexing, rocking up against air. 

Porthos moves his hips and watches the way Aramis’ head falls back with the movement, finally choking on the weight of his cock down his throat, gasping out breath as he lurches back, breathing heavily, cock against his mouth. His eyes are shiny in the light, tears prickling the corners from the exertion. Porthos thumbs over his cheekbone and Aramis hums, smiling as he tips his head forward again, suckles at his cock. 

Porthos whispers, “Aramis.” 

He combs his fingers through his hair. He watches the way Aramis’ eyelashes flutter, the way his smile widens around the cock in his mouth. His pupils are blown wide in the dark. He blinks once – deliberate, looking up at Porthos, meeting his eyes. 

He draws back enough to say, “Come for me, my love.” 

He hardly needs the coaxing, is already teetering towards the edge – but he groans out his name, softly, curls his fingers tight in his hair and guides him close. Aramis opens his mouth willingly, lets Porthos come across his tongue and lips, leans forward quickly to swallow around him, suckles at the cockhead while looking up at him. 

Porthos gasps out a hitching moan, weakly, jerking forward as Aramis drinks him down. Aramis takes it – isn’t forced to take it, but takes it willingly, smiling around him. 

Soon enough, he draws back, rises to his feet and kisses Porthos. Aramis’ hands drag down over him, work at the ties to his shirt and draw it off his shoulders – breaking the kiss long enough to draw it off over his head – to reach for the rest of his clothes. Together, they fumble to get the last of their clothes off.

Porthos reaches for him, palms his cock, curls around it and strokes. Aramis gasps out happily into the kiss. 

“Wait, wait,” he whispers, shimmies away and drops down to a crouch again, fishing through his pants. He draws out a little bottle, stopped with a cork. It glitters in the candelight, the swish of oil inside. 

He grins as he stands, goes to Porthos – kisses him again, slowly, presses the bottle into his palm.

“Fuck me,” he whispers.

Porthos chuffs out a laugh, crowds into Aramis and pushes him up against a mirror. 

“Gonna take a while,” he admits, somewhat sheepish. He isn’t young anymore. Neither of them are. 

“Mmm,” Aramis hums, wriggles his hips so he slides up against the hollow of Porthos’ hip, rocks his hips forward so his cock slides against him. “Then you should distract me, to pass the time.” 

Porthos pulls up the stopper, lets it drip onto his fingertips and slicks his hands up. Aramis gives a shuddering breath and turns around, presses his hands to the mirror and leans his forehead against it, arching his back and presenting his ass to Porthos. 

Porthos cups his ass, presses closer, slides his fingers along the crease of his ass to slick him up. Aramis lets out a keening whimper, one hand dropping down to slide his fingers over his cock. Porthos watches in the reflection as he curls around his cock, squeezes at the base to keep from coming. 

“Please,” Aramis whispers, a plea more than a demand. Porthos presses a finger into him, slowly, taking his time – it’s been a while, been too long since they could be like this. 

It does not take long to fill him. This is a practice they’ve perfected over the years – filling Aramis slowly, one finger at a time, coating him and stretching him, preparing him. Aramis starts to squirm, goes breathless, calls Porthos’ name in encouragement. He whines. Now it’s a matter of Aramis being patient, waiting for Porthos to get hard enough again to fuck him. In the meantime, Porthos lets Aramis go wild on his fingers – moves slowly in languid strokes, stretches and scissors his fingers inside of him so that Aramis can only shudder, fingers curling against the mirror’s edge. 

“Fuck,” Aramis whines out. “Oh God.” 

It’s these types of sounds that always draw Porthos close to the edge of desire. He feels himself stirring, knows the wait won’t be long. He presses a kiss to the bumps of Aramis’ spine, nuzzles at the back of his neck.

“You look good,” he tells him.

“I always do,” Aramis laughs, breathless, and rolls his hips down against his hand. “More, please.”

Porthos withdraws his hand, much to Aramis’ whining distress, to lather his hand in more oil – squeezes an additional finger in once he returns to him – spreads him open wide. 

They continue on like this, until Aramis is prepared and Porthos is hard. Aramis breathes out happily when Porthos tells him so – draws back so Porthos can coat himself in oil, stroke over his cock, and line himself up against Aramis.

Aramis arches his back, spreads his legs. “Please,” he whispers. “Fuck me. Fuck me hard.” 

Porthos cups his hip with one hand, guides his cock in with the other – nudges inside of him, slowly. Despite the preparation, there is still a moment where Aramis must adjust, spreading his legs, getting used to the girth of Porthos’ cock. Aramis sighs out, nods his head when he’s ready – and Porthos moves slowly, carefully, always careful in these moments with Aramis. 

He’s pressed inside of Aramis, cock deep inside of him. Aramis gasps out, slides his hands over the mirror – staring at himself in the mirror. Porthos watches, mesmerized, by the way Aramis watches himself – his pupils blown wide, his mouth open, cheeks flushed. The light from the candle flickers over his face, casts long shadows. He bites down hard at his lip, wriggles his hips back to try to coax Porthos into moving faster, harder. 

“Please,” Aramis says. 

Porthos curls an arm around Aramis’ waist to support him, thrusting hard into him. Aramis gasps out, arches his back. 

“You like looking at yourself?” Porthos whispers into the back of his neck.

Aramis moans out weakly, rolls his hips back to meet him, squeezes around him.

“Bet you’d fuck yourself if you could,” Porthos decides with a deep chuckle – and Aramis’ response is a throaty cry, laced with laughter but undoubtedly true. Yes. He would. 

“Please,” Aramis says, breathless. “Fuck me harder.”

He presses his forehead to the glass again, stares at himself, at the way his face changes as Porthos obeys, thrusting hard into him. Aramis’ eyelashes flutter, his lips part, and he moans. In the mirror, Porthos watches him, cups his hips and rocks forward, harder still until Aramis swears, loudly. 

“You won’t be able to sit without soreness,” Porthos warns him, thrusting forward again and again – deeper still, body shaking apart with the need to come, but waiting – waiting until Aramis will come.

Aramis laughs out, breathless and high-pitched. “Oh, _fuck_ ,” he gasps out. “I hope so. It’ll make me think of you every time I try to sit.” 

Porthos laughs out, too, breathless with it. He quickens the strokes of his hips, rocks into Aramis – sliding back a few thrusts in, moving more gently, only to speed up again once Aramis has caught his breath. 

Aramis tips his head back, looking at Porthos in the reflection when he says, “I love you. So much.” 

It is not the first time Aramis has said it – of course not – but it has been so long since they’ve been able to be like this that Porthos almost falters. He slows, breathes out in a rush, and curls both arms around Aramis’ body – so he can press to him, chest to back. He runs his fingers up over his stomach, tracing over scars, skims over his ribs.

“Me too,” he says, voice thick. 

“Don’t cry, love,” Aramis laughs, but his eyes are bright in the candlelight. He lifts his hand, curls it back so that it cups the back of Porthos’ head, keeping him pressed there against his shoulder. 

“You’re sweet,” Porthos says, kisses his shoulder, and rocks his hips forward in shallow little thrusts. “Look at me. I want to see your face.” 

Aramis’ breath hitches and he meets the movement – locking eyes again with Porthos in the mirror as he smiles, slow and gentle, his cheeks flushed as he moves. 

“Like what you see?” Aramis asks him. 

“Don’t I always?” Porthos asks, and bites his shoulder, keeping his eyes on Aramis in the reflection. He lets his hand wander down over his stomach, curl around his cock, and stroke in time to his thrusts. 

Aramis’ eyes shut, his mouth opening as he moans. When he opens his eyes again to look at him in the mirror, his eyes soften. 

“God,” he moans out. “Please – let me come.”

Porthos squeezes around him, strokes him off until he does come with a muffled cry – Porthos cupping his hand over the head of his cock to catch his release. Aramis rocks forward in shaky movements, his entire body shuddering in his arms. Porthos holds him steady, watches the way Aramis’ fingers flag against the mirror, then curl into fists as he leans heavily against the mirror and in Porthos’ arms.

“You too,” he gasps after a moment, breathless. “God, come in me. Let me feel you.”

Porthos rocks into him – keeps rocking, harder and harder, fueled on by Aramis’ breathless calls of his name, squeezing around him. It does not take long for Porthos to moan out and come for a second time, this time inside of Aramis. He feels himself filling him, feels the way Aramis squirms in his arms, eager for that feeling. Porthos tightens his hold around him and Aramis arches, gasping his name.

“Are you alright?” Porthos asks once their breathing starts to steady. 

“Oh, _yes_ ,” Aramis whispers, and shivers out when Porthos shifts back – sighs out in longing when Porthos slips away from him.

He turns, though, and reaches for Porthos – draws him to him, hugging him. Leans up and kisses him, slow and languid. Porthos presses his hand to the mirror to brace himself, keeping Aramis close. 

“I’ve missed this,” Aramis whispers against his mouth.

Porthos nods. “Me too.”

Aramis bumps his nose to his and then presses their foreheads together. “You’ll be safe, once you have to go back… right? Promise me?”

“I promise,” Porthos whispers, feeling overfull. 

They stay pressed to the mirror like that for some time – before they remember themselves, understanding where exactly they are: an unlocked room in the palace, during a party. Together, they clean up and dress again, making sure that they both looked presentable. They hold hands for a moment, Aramis pressing another swollen kiss to him. They’d have to return to the party – soon. For now, they swap kisses, quiet in each other’s space, comfortable and heavy with love.

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found [on my tumblr.](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/)


End file.
